


Drift

by GwinnettPale



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cuddling, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses, Neck Kissing, One Shot, Plot What Plot, Romantic Fluff, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwinnettPale/pseuds/GwinnettPale
Summary: Two tired boys indulge in some morning cuddling and Danse can't help wondering if there is more to this than sex.





	Drift

**Author's Note:**

> I had a random but overwhelming urge to write these two having a cuddle. That's it, really. No sex, zero plot, not part of any wider story, just a truly excessive amount of fluff.

Danse blinks his eyes open. The cracks on the ceiling above him slide into focus as the fog of sleep starts to clear. The small bedroom is dim and soft, cold grey light seeping in through the sheet tacked up over the window. It's barely dawn and there is a chill in the air, but it’s countered by the warmth of the body in the bed beside him. Mac is sprawled on his stomach, mouth open, face half-buried in the pillow, blankets tangled around his lower half. One slim arm is tucked underneath him but the other is draped across Danse’s chest, hand resting on his ribs. The sight makes Danse smile. He resists the urge to draw him in closer, run his hands through the dirty-blond hair, press kisses along that lovely neck. It is tempting, but on the other hand, it’s so rare to see Mac like this – so completely and utterly dead to the world – that Danse is reluctant to disturb his rest. He contents himself with covering the hand on his chest with his own and closing his eyes, letting himself drift to the sound of his lover’s breathing.

When he wakes again, it’s because Mac is nosing sleepily against his shoulder.

“Danse?”

“Mm?”

“’S cold.”

Danse rolls onto his side and throws an arm over Mac so that he can curl up against his chest. Mac nestles into him eagerly, seeking out his usual spot with his head resting in the crook of Danse’s shoulder.

“Good morning.”

Mac only grunts in response, somehow conveying in a single incoherent syllable that he a) does not consider this morning and b) has no intention of having a conversation about it.

“MacCready, sometimes I suspect you are just using me for my body heat.”

“Whatcha gon’ do ‘bout it?” comes the mumbled reply. 

Danse combs his fingers through Mac’s sleep-mussed hair and kisses his forehead. Mac grunts again, but this time he sounds smug. He lazily brushes his lips against Danse’s neck before settling himself back against his shoulder.  

Normally, one or both of them would already be up and about. The General is a fair man, but relentless in his mission to unite the Commonwealth under the Minutemen banner. It is a rare day when Nate can spare both his best sniper and his lead tactician. Mac is not a natural early riser and Danse is always filled with a sort of fond amusement as he watches him fumble around for his clothes, half-blind with sleep, grumbling about the ungodly hour, first cigarette of the day already dangling from his mouth. In turn, Mac likes to scoff at Danse’s morning regime - the push-ups, the tato juice, the careful grooming - but there is never any malice behind his taunts. Danse has come to realise that the constant needling is the sniper’s way of expressing affection. Or possibly his way of trying to mask how deep that affection runs.

Mac is dozing again, so Danse entertains himself by stroking his hand across his ribs, over his hip, along his thigh. He loves the hard lines of Mac’s body, the lean muscle, the surprising softness of his skin, the light dusting of freckles on his shoulders and chest…

Mac makes a soft whine of complaint.

“Mmf. Your hands are freezing.”

“Are they?”

Danse runs a mischievous finger up Mac’s spine, causing him to hiss in protest and flinch away from the touch. He tries to snatch at the offending hand, but Danse twines their fingers together and pulls him closer instead. Mac resists for a moment, trying to feign irritation, but then melts into Danse’s arms, nudging his knees apart with his own so they can tangle their legs together.

“Better,” he says, a little muffled as he nuzzles against Danse’s neck. Danse wraps his arms around him fully, marveling at how easy it is for him to completely envelop Mac in his embrace. He's so little. 

“You are so little.”

“Shut up, Danse,” says Mac. But then he tilts his head up and bumps his mouth against Danse’s jaw, silently demanding a kiss. Danse obliges him, slow and leisurely with lots of tongue, enjoying the hum of pleasure he draws from the smaller man. He keeps one hand curled in his hair and slides the other down to his ass, squeezing possessively as Mac arches against him.

For a while, they lie like this, kissing soft, then hard, then soft again, tongues teasing, breath mingling, teeth gently grazing lips. Danse is half-hard and he can feel Mac pressing against his thigh, but he feels no need to rush things along. They can stay in bed all day if they want to. Yesterday, Nate abruptly granted them both “some well-earned R&R, barring an emergency.” Danse can’t help but wonder if the General has been tipped off about… whatever this is. It is difficult to be discreet in Sanctuary, what with the paper-thin walls and bored farmers always looking for gossip. 

Having free time together is exciting, but also a little nerve-wracking. When they started out, Danse had no doubts as to the utilitarian nature of the relationship; pleasurable physical release, mutually beneficial, an effective form of stress reduction. As they began to seek each other out more regularly, sharing a bed seemed like a practical arrangement too. But recently, they've both been too exhausted for sex, too tired for anything except brief kisses and caresses at the end of the day before snatching a few hours' sleep in each other’s arms. With both of them run ragged, it's been easy to avoid asking what this new development means, or if it means anything at all.

Gently, Danse pushes Mac over onto his back and props himself up on his elbow. Mac’s deep blue eyes are unfocused, glazed with sleep, and the sharp angles of his face look softer in the dim light. His lips – dark and still slightly puffy from last night’s activities – are curved into a lopsided smile. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is the same man he works with out in the field: the truculent sniper with the near-permanent scowl, something undeniably dangerous in the way he carries himself despite his scrawny frame. Danse has grown to like and respect that man as well. He admires his skill as a marksman, his fierce determination and his seemingly endless resilience (somewhat belied by his penchant for complaining). But the man lying beside him, eyes hooded, breath slow, skin bare, so open and vulnerable in spite of everything? This is the man who has him drifting into something that feels dangerously like love.

Danse runs a hand down Mac's bare torso and across his stomach, smirking a little at the visible shiver that follows his trailing fingers. Mac is sensitive almost everywhere and Danse enjoys how easy it to make him squirm and gasp with the lightest of touches, loves watching him come undone under his hands.

“You look gorgeous this morning.”

The words fall out of his mouth before he has time to think about them, and Mac immediately tenses up, flushing bright red. Danse knows he has crossed a line, broken one of their little unspoken rules. Normally, they save the compliments for when they are both lost in a fuck-stupid haze, urging each other on with praise and endearments as they race towards the edge together. Danse has learned that you can say all sorts of things during sex without it meaning much, without really changing anything. But here, in the cold light of morning, the words hang stark and bold in the air between them.

Mac mutters something, but Danse does not catch it.

“What was that?”

“I said, _not as gorgeous as you_." Mac sounds so disgruntled that Danse has to suppress a chuckle.

“Well, it’s true. I mean, look at you! You’re stupidly handsome. It’s ridiculous.”

Danse can feel his own cheeks heating up, along with a dopey grin spreading across his face, so he dips his head to kiss Mac’s neck in an attempt to hide it. He works up and down from jaw to collarbone until a low groan tells him he's found a sweet spot, just below the ear. Mac is running his hands through Danse’s dark, coarse hair, tugging and gasping as teeth are introduced into the equation.

“Mmm, Danse… Danse…”

Mac moaning his name like that, all low and needy, makes him want to abandon any semblance of control, flip his lover onto his stomach and take him, rough and hard and wanton until they collapse against each other and float off into sex-soaked oblivion again. But another part of him wants to stay right here for as long as possible, hovering in this slow, sleepy limbo where they can touch and tease and gently test each other’s boundaries.

He feels Mac give his hair a more pointed tug and he presses one final kiss to his neck before propping himself up again to take in his lover’s face. Mac is biting his lower lip in a way that makes Danse's cock twitch, but there is clearly something other than sex on his mind.

“Danse?”

“Mm?”

“What’s your name?”

At first, the question seems entirely nonsensical.

“My name?”

“Yeah. Your first name. You do have a first name, right? I mean, it can’t be Paladin.”

Danse blinks in surprise. “My first name is Marcos. But no one ever calls me that.”

“Well, maybe I could.”

He considers this, still feeling a little blindsided.

“I suppose there is no reason that you shouldn't. But why?”

“I dunno. It just feels weird to keep calling you Danse when we… you know, when we’re like this.”

 _Like what?_ Danse wants him to say it out loud, wants to hear him put words to this thing that's happening between them.

“Marcos,” says Mac, trying it out, “Mark…no, it has to be Marcos. I like it. It suits you.”

He smiles, looking absurdly pleased with himself, just like he does when he finds a pristine pack of cigarettes or a sealed box of snack cakes. Danse can't help but smile back, even though it is strange to hear his all-but-forgotten first name in Mac's mouth. _Marcos_. It's not exactly a secret, but it is a little piece of himself that no one else knows or ever thinks to ask about. And now he's given it to Mac without a second thought. Another boundary line scuffed.

“Alright, but now I feel like I should call you something other than Mac.”

“Sure, why not. Robert or Joseph, take your pick.”

“How about RJ?”

Mac winces a little at that.

“Uh, no. Not RJ. It’s… it’s been a long time since anyone called me that.”

Danse knows better than to prod further at whatever wound he has accidentally exposed. He brushes his lips lightly against Mac’s forehead to let him know that he understands. He turns the proffered names over in his head.

“Well, I am not convinced by Robert. And you're not a Joseph either.”

“Joe?”

“No. Maybe Rob? Or… what about Bobby?”

“Ugh, really? Bobby?”

“Yes. Bobby. It's short for–”

“I _know_  what it’s short for, you big lug.”

“Then what is your objection?”

“It’s too… too _cute_.”

“I disagree. I believe it's precisely the right amount of cute,” says Danse, feeling himself grinning like an idiot again. This time he makes no attempt to hide it.

Mac rolls his eyes in exasperation, but the effect is spoiled by the blush blooming on his cheeks.

“You're particularly cute when you get flustered,” says Danse, and Mac goes so intensely red that he is in danger of turning into a tato. He starts to protest, but Danse bends down to capture his mouth in a rough kiss instead. He knows he's won this round when he feels a resigned sigh against his lips.

“Fine, fine," says Mac, a little breathless, "You can call me Bobby. But only when we’re here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. You know. Here. Alone. Together. Uh, naked. Doing... things.”

“That's fine. I like it here,” says Danse, and pulls him in for another kiss, longer and deeper this time. Mac seizes his arms, and there's a surprising urgency in his grip, calloused fingers digging into Danse's biceps hard enough to leave bruises. The way he pushes his tongue into Danse's mouth is almost frantic. Like he's worried that this is all going to dissolve like a dream, now that they have verbally acknowledged that they are indeed doing... things. Danse holds him just as tight, one hand on the back of his neck, the other pressing firmly into his lower back, trying to reassure him that he's not letting go any time soon. They roll over together, panting a little, Danse landing on his back with Mac draped across his torso. Watery sunshine is now filling the room in earnest, but the light cannot entirely account for the gleam in those blue eyes. Something jittery is happening in Danse’s chest, and he can see that there is a nervous edge to Mac’s smile. He reaches a hand up to cradle his face, and Mac closes his eyes as he leans his cheek into the touch.

“My Bobby,” whispers Danse, almost too quiet to hear. Nevertheless, Mac’s eyes flick open and find his gaze.

“Yours?”

He looks slightly panicked but Danse knows there's no backing down now. Line crossed, boundary obliterated.

“Yes. Mine. Is that alright?”

Confusion flits briefly across across Mac’s face, but once it passes, his expression relaxes into a smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

"Outstanding."

Relief floods through Danse. Mac lays his head down on his chest with a small sigh of contentment, ear against his heart. There's no chance of Danse falling asleep again now. But as he feels his lover's breath skimming slow and even over his skin, he knows he would be perfectly satisfied to drift in this moment forever.


End file.
